


We Don't Choose Who Lives Or Dies (Or Who Tells Our Story)

by stonerjohnlaurens



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Alex/Everyone, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Eating Disorders, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobia, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, It's Hamilton so it's gay, It's Heathers so it's violent, Lots of that, M/M, Murder, Slurs, Suicide, Swearing, Transphobia, Underage means 17 year olds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-05-22 18:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6090402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonerjohnlaurens/pseuds/stonerjohnlaurens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Heathers/Hamilton AU!<br/>September 1st, 1989. New York City.</p><p>  <i>He was stressed over the prospect of this being his final year in high school, the possibility of getting into an Ivy League and studying history recreationally for the rest of his life. Prior to this summer, he consider Harvard, Duke, or Brown. However, after some discussion with his foster parents, George and Martha, he had his eyes set on Columbia. He needed to get to Columbia, he needed the best grades of his graduating class, and he wasn’t throwing away his shot.</i><br/>Not even for the hellhole that was Westerberg High.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take My Diploma, Then I Can Blow (Us All Away)

**Author's Note:**

> Another excuse to rewatch Heathers and re-listen to both soundtracks. Enjoy. I'm going to sleep.

_ September 1 _ _ st _ _ , 1776. _

 

Alexander cringes and scribbles out the incorrect year. He’d been writing so many history-related essays over the summer that he's started writing years significant to America’s history out of habit.

He was stressed over the prospect of this being his final year in high school, the possibility of getting into an Ivy League and studying history recreationally for the rest of his life. Prior to this summer, he consider Harvard, Duke, or Brown. However, after some discussion with his foster parents, George and Martha, he had his eyes set on Columbia. He needed to get to Columbia, he needed the best grades of his graduating class, and he wasn’t throwing away his shot.

 

Not even for the hellhole that was Westerberg High.

 

_ September 1 _ _ st _ _ , 1989. _

 

_ Dear Diary. _

 

_ I believe I’m a good person! You know, I believe there’s good in everyone! But, here we are. First day of senior year! _

 

Someone runs into him in the hallway as he's writing, and he immediately looks up to apologize. The student's already halfway down the hall, darting around the pens that flew from Alexander’s hands and shoving their way through. He kneels down to gather his materials.

 

_ And, uh, I look around at these kids I’ve known all my life and I ask myself, “What happened?” _

 

“Freak!”  Screams a girl in a red tube top and even redder lipstick. Her face is flushed in anger, and if her gaze was telling at all, she wants to kill the person the word was meant for.

 

Turns out the recipient is the guy who had shoved Alexander out of the way. Reynolds, was that his name? “Slut!” He shouts back, trying to one-up her volume-wise.

 

Oh, how fun. Alexander was just in time to witness the barrage of insults being flung across the hall. Maybe a break-up? What a day to ring in the school year.

 

The girl’s face is nearly matching her lip color now. She starts jumping up and down frantically, names tumbling mindlessly from her mouth. “Burnout!” She sputters. “Bug-eyes! Poser!” She then storms out of view. That can’t be too healthy on such high pumps.

 

“Lard-ass!” The first guy yells back, despite his conversational partner (and now possibly ex) leaving.

 

_ We were so tiny, happy and shiny, playing tag and getting chased. _

 

Someone comes bumbling down the hall, being chased by a student much larger than them.

 

“Loser! Shortbus!”

 

Alexander shakes his head dejectedly.

 

_ Singing and clapping, laughing and napping, baking cookies, eating paste. _

 

Everything he writes seems so faux-poetic. He didn’t like that most of his shit rhymed but his therapist told him this was supposed to help him? He can't help how sing-songy his writing was.

 

_ Then we got bigger. That was the trigger, like the Huns invading Rome – _

 

Another history allusion. Barf.

 

His only worst habit than writing too sing-song-like and making too many history references out of context was writing while walking down the hall.

 

“Oof!” says the person he nearly runs over.

 

“Sorry!”

 

_ Welcome to my school, this ain't no high school: this is the Thunderdome. _

  
_Hold your breath and count the days, we're graduating soon._

  
Alexander’s thoughts flicker to his moments over the summer he didn’t spend writing or talking with his adoptive parents. He mostly cried in his room alone, friends he had from years before all abandoned. He’d think about dying, think about it so much it felt more like a distant memory rather than a dreary fantasy.

  
_College will be paradise if I'm not dead by June!_

  
He slumps into a corner in the hallway, kneels down, and takes a deep breath. In, hold, and out. In, hold, out. The writing resumes.

  
_But I know, **I know,** life can be beautiful. I pray, I pray for a better way. If we changed back then, we could change again. We can b_ e beautiful...

 

Suddenly, a girl in a yellow shirt trips in front on his feet. She has large, nearly comically, thick framed glasses that fly off her face as she falls. He shoots up to help her up, handing her the glasses.

 

“Just not today.” He mumbles to himself. “Hey, are you okay?” She snatches the glasses and puts them back on. Only then does he recognize her as Peggy Schuyler, the younger sister of his friend, Eliza.

 

“Get away, nerd!” She retorts, leaving his presence as soon as possible. He obliges, remembering how he was in freshman year, not wanting to be seen with the dorks of the school either.

 

Maybe he should just wait till he’s home to write more in his coping journal. Diary. Whatever.

 

Walking down the hall to his class is difficult. The constant stimulation caused by commotion around the school is enough to halt traffic, and he barely remembers any room that isn’t the cafeteria. As he walks he hears a number of insults being hurled around  _ still,  _ his least favorite being the word “homo” wailed cruelly a sinister three times. He prayed the term wasn’t intended for him.

 

Even with his full attention on walking now, he somehow still runs into Charles Lee, who utters a rude “Watch it!”

 

Alexander must’ve been glaring really hard at him, because his next course of action was to swat his journal and pens to the ground again. At this point, Alexander was tired of crouching down to get things, so he had a few choice words for Mr. Lee.

 

“Ah, Charles Lee. Third year as linebacker, Eight year of smacking stuff out of my hand, and being a huge dick.”

 

“What did you say to me, bastard?” He snarls.

 

“Remember that time you shat yourself in Knox’s class? Man, last I checked, the rest of us learned to control our bowels years ago. You should probably catch up.” Alexander spits, not letting Lee know that word bothers him in the slightest. 

 

“Yet he still chose me over you as debate team captain, second year in a row!” Charles laughs and walks off triumphantly.

 

Now, for any normal person, someone mentioning that you publically shat yourself in class is much more mortifying than being snubbed from debate captainship. But this is not a normal person. This is Alexander Hamilton, and Charles knew exactly how to make his skin crawl. Every part of him wants to turn around and beat Charles’ smug, pants-shitting face in, but he can't. Not today. It’s the first day back. He reminds himself constantly of his mantra..

_ But I know, I know, I know...Life can be beautiful.I pray, I pray, I pray for a better way. We were kind before; we can be kind once more. We can be beautiful… _

 

A tap rips him from inside of his own head.

 

“Agh! Hey, Eliza.”

 

“Hey.”

 

The two gather Alexander’s stuff off the ground, and he can’t help smile at her sweet, innocent, little face. Her cheeks are rosy, contrasting heavily with the pastel blue sweater she wore. Oh, Eliza.  _ Eliza.  _ His best friend since  _ diapers.  _

 

“Welcome back, Alexander. I got a sweater made just for us! With the nickname you gave me!”

 

“Eliza, this says Bestey.”

 

“Yes!”

 

“Eliza, I call you  _ bestie. _ ”

 

“Oh.” An awkward beat. “Well, I got one in five different colors, so get used to it. We still on for movie night?”

 

He rolls his eyes and kisses her adorable, pathetic cheek. “Yeah, you’re on Jiffy Pop detail.”

 

“I rented the Princess Bride!”

“Uh, again?” God, her misplaced optimism is sickening, so pure and genuine. “Don’t you have it memorized by now?”

 

“What can I say?” Her eyes are dark and doe-like, nearly sad if you look too hard. “I’m a sucker for a happy ending.” Her voice begins to falter as she says the remainder of her statement. Both she and Alexander are strangers to happy occurrences in their lives.

 

“Eliza Schuyler! Wide load!” Another student dressed in a similar dress to Lee - a varsity letterman’s jacket - runs up behind Eliza and mocks a truck horn, startling her, causing her to drop his  _ goddamn motherfucking journal again Jesus Fucking Christ _ . Alexander steps between them.

 

“John Adams, smartest guy on the football team.” He says the latter part with the most sarcastic tone he can muster. “Pick that up.”

 

“I’m sorry, are  _ you _ actually talking to  _ me _ ?”

 

“Yes I am. I wanna know what gives you the right to pick on my Betsey. You’re a high school has been waiting to happen, a disgrace, a fat motherfucker on top of it all. You bring shame to the name of Westerberg High and the entire state of New York, and I’ll never understand how you - John  _ Adams,  _ \- got onto student government when you don’t even show up to your own meetings!”

 

“...You have a zit. Right there.” He flicks at Alexander’s forehead. Some kids loitering about laugh along with Adams, obviously glossing over anything Alexander was just saying.

 

He's furious, just livid. The first day of his senior year is already nearly ruined; He can’t even have a cutesy moment with Eliza without it being absolutely shattered by the negative aura the shitpot they called Westerberg seems to radiate.

 

The worst part about it is that  _ no one here is benefiting from it _ . They could easily all just stop being assholes, maybe someone would crack a goddamn smile for once in their life! But no, they were teenagers, horny ticking time bombs full of spite and useless factoids they won’t need beyond 12th grade, so of  _ course  _ they had to perpetuate the toxic environment. It was only normal, whatever the fuck that meant. No one’s benefiting from it, yet it continues.

 

Oh, but he forgot the one exception. Three, really.

 

The Southern Democratic Republicans. Two southern born, one a desperate transfer from Jersey wanting to be on top of things. They float above it all. They enterthe school as a monolith, each wearing an attire of their determined color. Oh, the aura they emitted was just as vile as the rest of the students, but there was something so alluring about every step they took, Alexander and the others just couldn’t look away!

 

They walk past him a rush, synchronized strut, barely acknowledging the boys and girls (and another varsity athlete, Lafayette, who identified as neither - something like Prince, maybe??) that pine for them to even look their way.

 

He hates everything they stood for, but oh, how he wants to be a Dem-Repub so badly. 

 

“Who are they?” Eliza whispers. He had forgotten she was there, honestly. She keeps to herself mostly, usually doodling between classes and dancing alone in her room on the weekends.

 

“Oh, Betsey, you must pay attention.” He points to the shortest member, a boy with short hair, a deep yellow slacks, and a pastel yellow button-down tucked into them. “That’s James Madison. Class vice president. His dad’s loaded - he sells engagement rings.”

 

“Next to him, in the outfit like his but green? That’s Aaron Burr.” Aaron’s face seems eternally frozen in a state of disdain, never impressed or pleased with anything. “Runs the school paper, barely has a writer’s voice. No discernable personality, no opinions on anything, really, but I hear he killed a guy.”

 

“Looks like he definitely could,” Eliza mumbles.

 

Alexander gestures to the last Democratic Republican. “And Thomas Jefferson.” Something flares in his voice when he says it, but he punctuates the name with a wistful sigh. Thomas is wearing a loud purple school-girl esque cardigan, a white blouse underneath. He has a red and purple plaid skirt on, white socks below this, and the disgustingly attention-grabbing attire is completed with his signature accessory - a bright, red tie. “The Almighty.”

 

“Yeah? What about him?”

 

“He’s a mythic bitch.”

 

They’re solid Teflon. Never bothered, questioned, picked on, or harassed.

 

“I would give anything to be like that.” They both breathe out in unison.

 

The bell rings.

 

Oddly enough, Alexander is blessed enough to be in the presence of the DemRepubs twice that day. He really had to pee during class so he excused himself and went to the boy’s bathroom. As he was exiting his stall, he heard the telltale sound of heaving and vomit splashing into the toilet next to him. He was about to dart out immediately, but he then he heard the exchange in the extra large stall.

 

“Grow up, Burr, Bulimia's so ‘87.” The nasally tone gave it away, definitely Jefferson.

 

“It’s not Bulimia…” He is so bad at lying. “I just get...nervous...sometimes.”

 

“Maybe you should see a doctor, Burr.” Madison offers.

 

“Yeah, Madison.” Alexander can hear the smile in his voice. “Maybe I should.”

 

A head peeps into the bathroom, probably stirred by the loud tone Jefferson used while talking to his friends. It’s Mr. Knox. Thomas and James exit the stall, Aaron still hovering over the toilet inside.

 

“Ah, Jefferson and Madison.” Knox says, knowingly.

 

Aaron pukes.

 

“And Burr. Perhaps you didn’t hear the bell over all the vomiting, or your non-inside voice, Jefferson. You’re all late for class.”

 

Alexander gets the best idea ever.

 

“Burr wasn’t feeling well. We’re helping him!”

 

“Not without a hall pass, you’re not. Week’s detention.”

 

“Actually, Mr. Knox, we’re all out on a hall pass. Yearbook committee.”

 

“You’re all listed...and that  _ is  _ Nathanael Greene’s signature. Hurry up and get where you’re going.” And with that, satisfied by Alexander’s trickery, he leaves the bathroom.

 

“This is an  _ excellent  _ forgery. Who are you?”

 

_ The leader of the Southern Democratic Republicans - he’s addressing me. ME. _

 

“Alex...ander. Alexander Hamilton.” He stutters out, all but saluting. “I crave a boon.”

 

“What boon?”

 

“Let me sit at your table at lunch. Just once. No talking necessary. If people think you guys tolerate me, they'll leave me alone.... “ Jefferson’s laughter is annoying and echoes through the restroom. The other two join in, Burr now standing at both of their sides.

  
“Before you answer, I also do report cards, permission slips and absence notes.” Alexander feels the need to add.

 

“How about prescriptions?”

 

“Talk less, Burr.”

 

“Sorry, Jefferson.”

 

Jefferson closes the gap between he and Alexander, taking his ponytail into his grip. Alexander can barely breathe. 

 

“For a greasy yankee, you do have hella good bone structure. It would be nice having another person in the group with some hair.” Aaron rubbed his head self-consciously.

 

“And a symmetrical face. If I took a meat cleaver down the center of your skull, I'd have matching halves. That's very important.” Madison says, soft tone contrasting with the fucked up morbid thing he just said.

 

“Of course,” Burr puts his hands to his hips. “You could stand to lose a few pounds.”

 

The DemRepubs spend their entire class period skipping whatever class they're supposed to be at, combing Alexander’s hair out of it’s usual fixture, letting it fall to the sides of his face, adding sheen to it and volumizing it. When they leave again, it’s already halfway through the day, so the three drag their victim to the mall and buy him a new wardrobe.

 

The same dreary faces are at lunch today, and Eliza has joined the mob. With no Alexander to accompany her at their usual table, she has a neutral visage in place of her usual smile.

 

She nearly drops her food to her tray when she sees her friend across the cafeteria, entering the room alongside the  _ Southern Motherfucking Democratic Republicans. _

 

Alexander is grinning the hardest out of the bunch, now dressed in a outfit similar to Thomas’s. Not nearly as loud, of course, that would be  _ impossible _ , but still flamboyant enough to draw some stares. His skirt is plain deep, dark blue, matching his cardigan. He has a lighter blue tie on around his neck, Thomas’s arm around his hip. Burr sneers at the gesture, surely thinking it’s too soon, Madison just smiles weakly, seeming to avoid eye contact with either of them. But who cares. Alexander Hamilton had made it.

 

_ And ya know, _

_ ya know, ya know _

_ life can be beautiful. _

_ You hope, you dream, you pray, _

_ and you get your way! _

_ Ask me how it feels _

_ looking like hell on wheels… _

 

His eyes meet with a boy also sitting alone, a boy dressed in mostly dark colors, a black trench coat just to really hit home the “mysterious drifter” aesthetic. The boy blinks, and he idly pushes a bit of his brown hair back. His eyes dip to Alexander’s skirt and back up to his eyes. And he winks.

 

He fucking  **_winks_ ** _.  _

 

_ My God, it's beautiful! _

_ And when you're beautiful... _

_ It's a beautiful frickin' day! _


	2. Honey, Whatchu Waitin' For (Wait For It)?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was really, really fun to write.

_ Dear Diary,  _

_ It’s been three weeks since I became friends with the Southern Democatic Republicans! Actually, friends isn’t exactly the right word. It’s more like the DemRepubs are people I work with, and our job is being popular and shit. Actually, it’s a lot like politics. _

 

The bell rings, and Alexander shuffles to put his journal in his bookbag. His free period was over, and now it was time for lunch, to clock-in and start his shift at hanging with the Democratic Republicans.

 

“Hey, Alex!”

 

“Hey!” Alexander pulls an approaching Eliza in for a warm hug. She hugs back, but fraily. 

 

“You really do look beautiful these days.” 

 

Alexander blushed and dragged a hand through his hair, just getting used to not bundling the strands into a messy ponytail. He was so thankful for Eliza. She knew exactly what to say at the exact right moment. Any time he wasn’t in the company of his new clique, he felt ridiculous. Sure, Westerberg students still fell at his feet, but he still felt terrible self-conscious.

 

“ _ Another _ skirt, Thomas? Are you sure?” He had asked the group’s leader. Thomas was barely listening, as he already purchased 10 other skirts for Alexander, all in varying shades of blue.

 

“I’m letting you match with me, be  _ my  _ bestie,  _ my  _ plus one, and  _ you  _ have a problem with that?” He answered back, not too rudely. Alex couldn’t help the small smile that started to form on his face. Thomas’s generosity combined with Aaron’s glare of envy and James’s nervous coughing at the word  _ bestie,  _ oh, he could just die.

 

But that was three weeks ago, and this was now. The DemRepubs weren’t here right this second, and he didn’t want to get glared at too hard for being so flamboyant. 

 

Somehow, in this cesspool of violent hate crimes and blatant hate for anything deemed queer, the flaming fruits called the Southern Democratic Republicans  _ still  _ managed to end up on top. Some sort of gay witchcraft, or something.

 

“Yeah, well.” He says, embarrassed, addressing his true bestie. “It’s still the same me, underneath.”

 

She puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s firm, concerningly uncharacteristically firm. He focuses on her face more so, it’s just as firm and unwavering. “Are you sure?”

 

He moved her hand to his chest. “Look, I’m sorry I flaked on movie night last week. I just have a lot going on.”

“I get that.” She dropped her hand. “You’re with the Democratic Republicans now!” She says this with forced, obviously faux enthusiasm. “That’s exciting.”

 

“It’s whatever. We’ll hang soon, I promise.” He lifts her hand again and presses a kiss on top of it. “The very best of women.”

 

She giggles. “Okay. I’m holding you to that.”

 

Aaron Burr walks up to them, stiff, as if the stick up his ass has quadrupled in mass. “Alexander, Thomas wants you to see him at the table. Now.”

 

“How very.” Alex rolls his eyes, waves goodbye to Eliza, and proceeds to follow Burr to The Table.

 

“Alexander, my secretary in the flesh,” Thomas says with an unusually sultry tone. “I need you to write a letter in Hercules Mulligan’s handwriting.” His manicured finger points to a table a few yards away. Hercules is sitting there with Lafayette - Marie?? Gilbert?? Who knows. - and they’re chomping away at their respective lunches. They’re both wearing letterman’s jackets and they both look happy with their lives. Why did Thomas have to pick on them?

 

He hesitated, but this was his job. He was on the clock, and he couldn’t say no to this.

 

Thomas handed Alexander a paper and pen. “You’ll need something to write on...Madison, bend over.”

 

There was a perfectly good table right there in everyone’s line of sight, yet James’s still readily bent over at Thomas’s whim. Thomas smirked at this, and silently commanded Alexander to write using his back as a surface. He didn’t think too much into the subtext, just went about his job.

 

“Write as I say.” Thomas cleared his throat. “Hey beautiful. I’ve been watching you and thinking about us back in the good ol’ days. I hope you can come to my homecoming party this weekend. Miss you. Herc. XO.” 

 

Alexander’s face twisted more and more with each more affectionate word, but didn’t question it until he was done. Aaron and James couldn’t stop snickering. “What’s this for, anyway?”

 

“I just found out that Herc used to hang out with E-loser Schuyler.” Thomas could barely keep composure as he snatched the forged note.

 

“Yeah, we all did. In kindergarten, remember?” Alexander said, trying to elicit some sympathy for his closest friend.

 

“Yeah, but we all didn’t kiss on the kickball field!” Aaron said with another laugh.

 

“Oh, I remember that. Did they also kinda date in middle school? I saw them cuddle once! It was simply disgusting!” Madison straightened up and visibly cringed. 

 

“Perfect!” Thomas cackles. He turns to face the two most hated people on Westerberg’s campus. That’s a bit biased on Alexander’s part, but he couldn’t be that off. They’re whispering to each other, sort of.

 

“No homo bro, but how hot would it be to be in a Alexander Hamilton, Thomas Jefferson sandwich?”

 

“Lee, that’s a little gay. You can’t just say no homo and negate the homo.”

 

“If that were the case, it wouldn’t be a term! Adams, Adams, listen. Just think about it.”

 

“...The skirts do it for me, bro.”

 

“Punch it in.” They fist bump.

 

“ADAMS!” Thomas all but shouts. He and Lee are soon zipping to his side. He hands the note to Adams. “Be a sweetie and deliver this to E-loser Schuyler. Say it’s from someone special.”

 

“What? No!”

 

“Since when do you talk to that walking disaster?” Adams starts to open the note, but Thomas stops him.

 

“Ah ah ah,” He says, tantalizingly. “She’s going to lose her virginity soon,” Of course Thomas has to do hand gestures to imitate sex acts. Of course. “She wanted to know how it feels to get stuffed up with a big, juicy cock until you’re screaming to good God above. I have some experience in the matter so I thought that I could write some pointers in this note--”

 

“Ew, gross!” He hands the note to Alexander as if it’s infected. He takes it and slowly begins to tear it up.

 

“What are you doing, Hamilton?”

 

“Please don’t do this man. N-not to Eliza, sh-- “

 

“Why not? Think about it! It’ll give her shower nozzle masturbation material for weeks!” Burr quipped.

 

“Talk less, Burr.”

 

“Sorry, Jefferson.”

 

“Jefferson, Eliza’s really sensitive about the whole Hercules thing with him and --”

 

“Are we going to have a problem?” Thomas snapped. Every command he fired Alexander’s way this month had been somewhat laced with playful charm. But his tone was unmistakably angry now, totally demanding. It put Alexander on edge, made his heart skip a beat.

 

“You’ve got a bone to pick?” He continued. “You’ve come so far, why now are you pulling on my dick?” With the last syllable emphasized, he pushes Adams and Lee out of his space and pulls Alexander close by the collar of his cardigan. Their faces are close enough for whisper-threats now. 

 

“I’d normally slap your face off and everyone here could watch,” He grits out.

 

Alexander’s breath hitches. He feels a bit dizzy. Something about the pure noxious feel of Thomas’s being attracts him, makes him gravitate to his words, solidifies his admiration further. This was the power of the Democratic Republicans he was feeling, wickedly alluring, maddeningly revoltingly  _ awfully  _ alluring - Thomas is in his face. They’re breathing in the same air, noses nearly touching. He can barely concentrate on the threats flying out of Thomas’s mouth anymore, but he remembers there being something about slapping.

 

He ponders on the idea. In some context far from this one, he’d probably be okay with Thomas slapping him.

 

Focus, focus, focus. He’s yelling right now. He’s  _ angry. _

 

“...listen up, bi-otch!” Thomas lets his cardigan go, hops up on the table, and crosses his legs. Burr and Madison nearly break their necks rushing to his side, making it clear that they’re avaliable for his every little need. Adams and Lee look on in awe. Alexander feels his legs dragging him closer to Thomas, now being looked down upon like a lowly peasant would be under the gaze of an uncaring god.

 

Thomas throws the most terrifying of hissy fits, Alexander gathers quickly. He starts listing off things the DemRepubs do and what he could do  _ with  _ them if he just loosened up.

 

He’s zoning out again though. What  _ was  _ that feeling, that odd flush that suddenly fell upon him in Thomas’s grasp? Why was he letting him just rip him a new one like thins with little response?

 

Alexander doesn’t  _ need  _ the Democratic Republicans, he wants to be with them. No, really. He does, wholeheartedly. He doesn’t agree with a lot of the things they do, of course, but he can’t deny that he likes all the attention and perks he’s gotten lately from hanging around them. Sure, he wants people to leave him alone, but he can fight. He’s had plenty of practice, he doesn’t need fashionable, snooty bodyguards. 

 

Alexander looks at Lee. He’s transfixed by Thomas, he couldn’t be moved with a wrecking ball. Alexander justified the not-arguing-back thing with that one sucker. If hanging out with two lemmings and a peacock with a bit of a squawk can get people looking at him like  _ that _ , then maybe, just maybe, this is all worth it.

 

“Guys fall at our feet.” Thomas states flatly, smugly.

 

“Pay the check--” Burr starts.

 

“ _ And _ help you cheat!” Madison says as if he’s advertising some kind of self care book, and not some bitchfest membership.

 

“All you have to do is say goodby to Shamu.” 

 

That was low. Not for Thomas, Thomas goes for the scum beneath the scum, but  _ Jesus  _ the constant comments about Eliza’s weight were really getting to him. He decided once again to zone out, stare past Thomas.

 

Wait, where’s Burr?

 

He was there just a second ago, he was, the fucking wannabe Houdini motherfucker! But suddenly he was nowhere to be found.

 

“Keep on testing me, Hamilton…” Thomas adjusts his red tie.

 

“You’ll end up like her!” James points past their area of the cafeteria towards the corner.

 

Eliza’s corner.

 

Burr has the note.

 

Now Eliza has the note.

 

Shit, shit, shit!

 

After a few minutes of staring her way, Alexander accepts defeat and slumps his shoulders. Fucking sneaky ass crossdressing drama-starting shitstain-licking fuckwads. He couldn’t believe they did this to someone as innocent as Eliza. The nerve.

 

She’s coming this way.

“Alex, look!” She looks so happy, happier than normal. Shit.

 

“Herc invited me to his homecoming party! Alex! Oh my gosh! See, I told you there was still something there! Maybe he was just playing around when he said he -- “

 

Alexander nudged Eliza in the rib and used his eyes to tell her to stop talking. She looked around and noticed the others for the first time. Adams and Lee pretended to gag behind her. Burr was back in his “assigned” side of Thomas, that snake.

 

Alexander knew not to trust Burr, if anyone in the group was to be trusted.

 

“He’s been thinking about me, Alexander!”

 

Alexander didn’t have the heart to crush her heart, not like this. He looks up at Thomas for some sort of approval, and he nods with his eyes closed. Somehow, he knew exactly what Thomas wanted him to do.

 

“Color me stoked, Betsey.”

 

“I’m so happy!”

 

She skips away merrily. Shit. What did Alexander just do? Was that a lie? Lying’s more than the absence of truth, right? Right?

 

Rationalizing would have to wait. Burr turned Alexander back towards Thomas.

 

“So what Jefferson is saying is --”

 

“TALK LESS BURR, JESUS FUCK!” Thomas  _ screeches.  _ Burr stumbles at the sudden sound, but dutifully (somewhat wounded morale-wise) goes back to his spot near Thomas.

 

Thomas breathes deeply and addresses Alexander directly again. “Look, this is what the fuck we do. Either shut up and do it or shut up and leave. This is your only time I’m gonna give you to be able to turn back. Choose wisely, lame-ass, ‘cause this candy store is closing up soon.”

 

Thomas was in his face  _ again.  _ How could he say no to this?

 

He voices his allegiance and the DemRepubs cheer. Thomas presses a kiss into Alexander’s cheek and he gasps, cupping a hand over the kiss mark to preserve it.

 

“Lovely. See you tomorrow.”

 

The bell rings. They’re gone, the magic ripped right out of the dreary cafeteria with them.

Alexander’s chest is tight with confusion and anger and confusion and happiness and jesus  _ fuck  _ Thomas “Let’s Go Tear Up Somebody’s Lawn” Jefferson  _ kissed him.  _ Fuck.

 

“You shouldn’t have bowed down to the swatch dogs and the diet coke heads. They’re going to crush that girl.”

 

Alexander dropped his hand protecting the kiss mark and swiveled to face the voice. “I’m sorry, what?”

 

It was the boy, the boy he saw a few weeks back, the one who sits alone.

 

He had hair longer than Alexander, there’s a feat, and it cascaded around his face in brown waves. He had a brown complexion splotched with freckles, judging green eyes piercing into Alexander’s mind, fucking with the schema he had set for boys at Westerberg.

 

Boys at Westerberg were not this cute, nor this intimidating. Well, not simultaneously, anyway.

 

“You’ve clearly got a soul,” he said, matter-of-factly, as if he were reading the shit off of a clipboard. “You just need to work hard on keeping it clean. Those who stand for nothing fall for anything.”

 

Take the reaction Alexander had to Jefferson’s rage, multiple it by ten, hook it on cocaine and take it on a shopping spree, and you still couldn’t capture the pure attraction - scratch that - the pure  _ arousal  _ he felt with this guy around.

 

The guy turned to go, and Alexander walked after him.

 

“Um, hello. Hi. You can’t just quote one of America’s founding fathers and walk away like that. I didn’t catch your name.”

 

The boy stopped and glared at Alexander with a dumbfounded look. “I didn’t throw it.”

 

Holy shit.

 


	3. Hey Mister No-Name-Kid (What's Your Name, Man?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander sees the boy a lot sooner than he expected, thank the good Lord above. Quite a sight indeed.
> 
> He’s not sure if he could forget his face if he tried, honestly. Between planning outfits and feigning innocence with his foster parents, he couldn’t stop thinking about him. What he said about not being a follower, the stone-cold stare he gave Alexander, the way he looked like the love child of Ferris Bueller and that guy from The Shining, he had it all written down.

Alexander sees the boy a lot sooner than he expected, thank the good Lord above. Quite a sight indeed.

 

He’s not sure if he could forget his face if he tried, honestly. Between planning outfits and feigning innocence with his foster parents, he couldn’t stop thinking about him. What he said about not being a follower, the stone-cold stare he gave Alexander, the way he looked like the love child of Ferris Bueller and that guy from The Shining, he had it all written down.

 

He’s writing again the next time he sees the kid. The “stop bullying Eliza” kid. The “wow, that was pretty shitty of you,” kid. The “Not only am I well read, I have the voice and face of a sex god and I’m here to shun you,” kid.

 

_Ew. Cross out that last part. Gross, Alex, what are you, 13?_

 

Alexander keeps the notebook near himself at all times, of course, but he became extra protective of it ever since Mystery Boy became a hot topic. He didn’t need some nerd knowing how much he appreciated the curvature of the boy’s nose or his shady-drug-dealer style. Or worse. What if Jefferson got to it?

 

Wait, why the _fuck_ does he care what Jefferson thinks?

 

He’s sitting at a table during lunch hour again, but this time he has company.

 

Sitting with him at the table are Hercules and his teammate, Lafayette. Alexander smiles a small, coy smile at the boy and barely waves. The boy waves back, and gestures for Alexander to join them to eat. The boy gives him the most genuine grin, one that crinkles his nose and makes his cheekbones more obvious.

 

Goodness. Alexander needs a name, stat.

 

Alexander looks around the cafeteria as if he’s a deer about to cross a busy highway. No James, Aaron, or Thomas in sight. He’s safe, for now. He could spare a few seconds and hang out with his mystery guy.

 

“Hey, you.” He says, in the most charming voice, as if he’s in a goddamn porno. There’s a twang to his accent, something _southern_ about it.

 

“Hey, yourself.” Alexander strains his voice so it wouldn’t squeak. “Hiya, Herc.”

 

Hercules responds idly, distracted it seems. Lafayette doesn’t register anything going on. They (he?) have their eyes on Hercules, and can’t even be bothered to acknowledge Alexander.

 

“So, you took my advice? Got rid of those harpies?” Mystery Boy asks. Hercules snickers a little at that, and Lafayette rests their head on the football player’s arm.

 

“Uh, working on it. It’s not easy to just, you know, erase friendships like that.” Alexander thinks back to Thomas’ kiss, the heat he felt. He doesn’t want to admit it to his strange new friend but he doesn’t want to give that up for the world.

 

“Friendships? Listen: _Abyssus abyssum invocat_. Do you know what that means?”

 

Of course Alexander knows what that means. He’s as fluent in Latin as a person can be in a language that’s barely spoken.

 

“No,” he lied.

 

“It means the abyss, or Hell, invokes the abyss. No good is going to come from you hanging around those guys, nor their little cronies.” Alexander has his eyes glued to the kid before him, but he sees Hercules and Lafayette clearly shaking their heads in his peripheral. He scowls. Something in his gut tells him he’s right, _something_ , but it’s just not the time to be a hero.

 

“Hey!”

 

“See, here come the cronies.” The boy sighs. He points and Alexander follows his finger. Charles Lee and John Adams are barreling towards their table, the Southern Democratic Republicans hot on their trail.

 

“Alexander!” Thomas shouts. “What are you doing over there?!”

 

“Hey there, sweetheart,” Lee says towards the mystery boy with a hand slamming on the table. Lafayette, startled, jumps towards Hercules, and Hercules catches them just in time so they don’t fall off of their cafeteria stool.

 

Adams looks at their embrace and grimaces. “Shut up, fairies.”

 

Alexander is frozen in awe and horror. How dare they?

 

“What did your boyfriend say when you told him you were moving up to New York?” Lee inquires tauntingly. The boy’s face stays stoic and tight, even as Adams starts to poke his cheeks.

 

“My buddy Charles just asked you–”

 

Poke. Poke. Poke.

 

“—a question.”

 

“Hey, Adams, doesn’t this cafeteria have a “no fags allowed” rule?”

 

“Boys, cut it out.” Alexander says through clenched teeth. His hands are balled into fists and he can feel the heat rising in his face. He’s so close to screaming them both into alternate dimensions he can barely breathe.

 

The boy puts up a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. The hand seems to absorb all of Alexander’s fury, and he’s gushing again over the boy’s stupidly pretty face. Alexander admires him so much. So calm, clearly a genuinely great guy. In no way an instigator. Alexander could use some balance like that in his life.

 

“They seem to have an open policy for assholes, though.” The boy says, not breaking eye contact with Lee. There’s a monosyllabic ' _Oooooh! '_ heard from Madison’s direction. The tension only rises.

 

Okay, he’s definitely an instigator. Note to self, Alexander. Stop romanticizing strangers.

 

Lee huffs. “Hold his arms,” he growls. Adams springs into action and obeys Lee’s order. Alex reels from the swiftness of it, and nearly screeches when Lee puts his fist up to wail on Mystery Boy.

 

Alexander closes his eyes and prepares for the worst, and hears a lunch tray clattering. He opens his eyes again to see Mystery Boy decking not one, but _both guys in the face with his own lunch tray._

 

 _Holy shit,_ Alexander thinks.

 

“Holy shit,” Alexander says.

 

Hercules, Lafayette, Thomas, and James repeat the same sentiment in unison. A crowd starts to gather around the table, a rather motley crew of scattered students and teachers. “He’s so fast!” They’re shouting.

 

But it couldn’t be unfolding any slower for Alexander. In fact, time seems to still for Alexander.

 

He put a hand to his chest and presses down, pushes the breath he’s been holding in his chest out. “Whoa,” he barely says.

 

There’s something about the whole ordeal. Alexander can’t name it exactly, but something’s there. The way the boy seemed to be able to wound Lee so effortlessly, maybe? The satisfying smacking sound that could be nothing less than a lunch-tray-induced-concussion waiting to happen? He can’t quite pin it down.

 

But, oh, how he wants this kid to pin _him_ down, the brute strength exerted in one punch alone is enough to bring Alex to his knees, he’s decided. He wants to fucking kneel at this guy’s feet, what the shit, _kneeling_ , so demeaning, and let him do what he wishes with him.

 

Sure, Alex hates Lee and Adams, but not enough to get aroused from watching them in harm’s way. No, this is 100% the guy’s fault, Alex’s sure of it.

 

 

_Why, when you see boys fight, does it look so horrible, yet…_

 

Adams is on the ground, hands over his face. The boy doesn’t look like he’s even broken a sweat, fists still clenched, a vein by his temple throbbing slightly, moving the expanse of freckles on that part of his head.

 

 

_…feel SO right?_

_I shouldn’t watch this crap, that’s not who I am,_ Alexander lies to himself. _But with this kid...damn._

 

Something in the kid snaps and he’s on top of Adams, destroying his face with a barrage of sucker punches and loaded blows. Thomas is screaming for the faculty to do something, calling out for Adams to ‘stop being a bitch and kick his ass.’ Lee hasn’t even budged since he was knocked down. James Madison is covering his own eyes, and Hercules is covering Lafayette’s. Most of the teachers have left the cafeteria, claiming more important things to be doing, grading papers and such. Aaron hasn’t stopped eating the apple he walked in with.

 

By the third time the boy has pulled back his fist, Alex can see a little bit of blood on his knuckles.

 

Oh.

 

That's...nice.

 

_Hey, Mister No-Name-Kid. So who might you be? And could you fight for me? And hey…_

 

Thomas shoves Alex on the back. He drops some of his papers, which he scurries to gather up. “Hey, dipshit!” Thomas yells. “Call off your fucking psychotic attack dog of a boyfriend, maybe?”

 

Boyfriends with the kid who fucked up Charles Lee and John Adams. Oh, if only.

 

Alex, after sufficiently organizing his papers again, gets a bit closer to the scene. “That’s enough,” he says softly, only enough so he, the guy, and Adams can hear.

 

 

_Could you face the crowd?_

_Could you be seen with me and still act proud?_

 

To Alex’s surprise, the kid lets up and turns to face him. Their eyes meet and Alex melts. He can see the wrath seep out of his gaze and turn into respect, adulation even. He stands up and walks slowly up to Alex, close enough for their noses to touch. Alex can feel his face flushing and involuntarily smooths the creases out of his skirt, pushes a strand of hair behind his own ear.

 

The boy offers his hand to Alex, his bloodied, calloused hand. Fuck, that's hot.

 

 

_Hey,_

_Would you hold my hand?_

_And would you carry me through No-Man’s-Land?_

 

 

Alex takes his hand in his cautiously, feels his heart rate speed up a bit. Adams is a panting mess on the tiled ground behind them, but Alex can’t be bothered. He’s holding hands with creepy, drifter guy and he’s fucking ecstatic.

 

_It’s fine if you don’t agree,_

_But I would fight for you,_

_If you would fight for me._

 

 

“Good, you got him, hold onto him!” Thomas barks as he send James to get the nearest teacher. Alex blinks rapidly and suddenly recalls that, no, he’s _not_ floating on some cloud above the world, he’s still in shitty Westerberg, in New York fucking City, surrounded by the shitheads he’s been calling peers for a little over a decade.

 

Knox lags along behind James, approaches the boys holding hands after sifting through the now shrinking crowd of cowering students. He takes one look at Mystery Boy and tuts.

 

“You don’t have the space to start fights like this, you know, Mr. Laurens,” the faculty member says.

 

The boy, _Laurens_ , he spits in Knox’s face.

 

Knox grimaces. “Just Awesome.” He says, and grabs at the hand not holding Alex’s.

 

He drags Laurens out of the cafeteria with little resistance, saliva still dripping from his face. Alex swears he sees Laurens’ smile only _grow_ , but he himself hasn’t felt this sad in a while. He looks down at his hand. The contact was fast, and it’s stupid, sure, but it felt fucking _nice_ , like it was meant to be or some shit.

 

He fades back into reality and hears the clapping around him. Full on applause. Jefferson claps a hand on his shoulder and slinks the other around his waist. Alex would redden more if he wasn’t already as crimson as the blood on Lauren’s knuckles. Madison simply utters a quick and enthusiastic “yay!,” and Burr is still working on that fucking apple.

 

“Way to distract him, fuckin’ tool. Hey, Adams! Come congratulate ol’ Hamilton, you lazy sack of shit. He just saved your life.”

 

“That fuckin’ spaz fights better than Bo Diddly,” Adams coughs out before hacking out a blood-stained tooth.

 

“Fuckin’ A,” Lee says, finally coming to.

 

“C’mon, Ham, that was traumatizing as shit. Let’s cut class and play croquet. Your place, you said your mom makes good pâté?”

 

“Yeah, of course,” he lied. What the fuck is a pâté, Thomas, shut the entire fuck up, you entitled rich piece of shit.

 

They walk out of the café, and only Alexander looks back. He sees Hercules and Lafayette staying behind to clean up the mess of scattered lunch items and trays. They don’t look too upset about it though. On the contrary: they look blissful and happy, as if there’s nowhere else they rather be than there in that moment. Together.

 

Alex looks down at the hand that held Laurens’, and then down to the arm around his waist escorting him out of the area. Must be nice, he figures.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you know how long it took me to think up a play on words for this chapter title
> 
> and how hard it was to not write "john laurens" in this chapter. fcuk


	4. Swim in the Ice, Get Lost (in the Eye of a Hurricane)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Greetings and Salutations,” a different voice says from behind him. Alexander worries for a second, thinking it might be one of the DemRepubs, but he quickly recognizes it as--
> 
> “Laurens,” He breathes out. Laurens laughs and his nose crinkles again, right at the apex of his freckles. It’s so goddamn cute, Alexander could scream. But, he really, really shouldn’t. Play it cool, Hamilton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am BACK, ha-ha! Happy new year.
> 
> I really rushed back not only because of the influx of comments I've been getting (seriously guys, thank you so much!) but also the influx of copycats and other Heathers AUs. So, I thought, why not finish mine up since I was here first? I don't know when I'll be finished, but I do plan to complete this, so, stick around.

“God, Hamilton.” Jefferson’s had a sour attitude since the fight. They’re back at Alexander’s house, The Washington’s residence. It’s a nice place -- it’s got two stories, a reasonably large yard. Nothing that Jefferson and his uppity little followers are used to, surely, but it’s enough.

 

Well, enough for someone like Alexander. Up until recently, he was as lost as a stray cat looking for shelter. The Washingtons swear they adopted him because they saw his potential and saw something in him. He knows that to be untrue. The reality of it all is, the Washingtons must’ve pitied him. He’s always been scrappy, ragged, the works. The chip on his shoulder is big enough to sink a ship. That’s why he treads so lightly. He’s waiting for the day the ground under him gives, and his fantasy of a life is swept away. He’s not going to get too comfortable. 

 

Either way, the house is more than enough for Alexander.

 

“You’ve been drooling since we’ve left. You were nearly throwing your panties at that gross psycho kid,” Jefferson sneers. Burr and Madison titter to themselves, as if on some sort of theatrical cue.

 

“And honestly? From the looks of this house?” Jefferson kneels down to adjust a wicket. “Doesn’t seem like you can afford replacement panties.”

 

It’s not like the Washingtons are poor. In actuality, they’re pretty fucking loaded. Maybe not “a new car every 6 months,” loaded, no, but it’s enough. Far more than enough. How dare he suggest it’s somehow _ not _ ?

 

“Oh, fuck off, Jefferson. Sorry I can’t afford a solid gold croquet mallet or a platinum vibrator.” Alexander says back, not aloof enough to feign innocence, but not harsh enough to mean too much by it.

 

Jefferson snaps his head up from the grass. “Who told you about that?” He whispers quickly.

 

“Nevermind it,” Alexander says with a blush, because, holy shit, he was just joking and he doesn’t want to think of Thomas using a vibrator. Not right now anyway. Fuck. “It’s your turn. Hit the ball.”

 

“Are we not going to talk about your weird hybristophilia?” Jefferson asks. He’s good at acting, because Alexander almost thinks he’s concerned about him or something. He’s never heard Thomas say a word over four syllables before, so he’s a little taken aback. 

 

“What’s hybristophilia?” Madison asks.

 

“It’s the attraction to serial killers.” Burr answers, which attracts a few stares, because who the actual flying fuck was talking to him.

 

“Yeah. I heard about it on the radio. Weird thing to get your rocks off to, you know? Why can’t you be normal and go through your dad’s Playboy or something?” Jefferson makes a crude masturbatory gesture, which, again,  _ Alexander doesn’t want to think about. _

 

“I don’t have hybristi-whatever, and I don’t even know the guy’s full name, so shut it.” Alexander gives a tight smile, very Aaron-like of him, and leans on his own croquet mallet. “Now hit the fucking ball.”

 

“Whatever.” Jefferson hits the ball with a hard  _ thwack!  _ and it goes flying. It heads off field and right into the vicinity of Mr. and Mrs. Washington. They’re sitting languidly at a table in the garden. 

 

“Mom, Dad, watch out!” Alexander hollers. 

 

Alexander’s foster father, George, ducks gracefully without even looking up from his newspaper. The ball sails over his bald head. His wife, Martha, mumbles a sing-song  _ “I’ll get it!” _ before proceeding to retrieve the ball.

 

Martha scoots over and hands the ball to Alexander, which Jefferson quickly snatches away. 

 

“Just so you know, that was a slip up,” Alexander mumbles. “I’m not your son.”

 

“Not in that skirt you’re not!” Martha laughs and pinches at Alexander’s cheeks. He shies from the affection, feeling exposed in front of the Southern Democratic-Republicans. “I swear! These teenager trends get more and more ridiculous as the days go on.”

 

“ _ Martha _ ,” Alexander groans. Madison and Burr laugh, a little more genuinely than before. 

 

“Anywho!” Martha goes back to the table, picks up a plate, and walks to the group of teens. “Would any of you like some pâté?”

 

“This isn’t pâté. It’s liverwurst.” Jefferson retracts his hand from the platter as if he’s just been burned.

 

“Very observant of you. It’s a joke we have in the family.”

 

Burr turns up his nose. “Funny,” He says.

 

“Ha-ha.” Jefferson deadpans.

 

“I don’t get it,” Madison says soon after, genuinely confused.

 

“Uh…” Alexander shifts uncomfortably.

 

“God dammit!” George says suddenly, not looking up from his newspaper. “I swear to god, the world gets stupider every day, why do I keep reading these periodicals thinking things are going to change?”

 

Alexander looks at Jefferson. What would he say in this situation?

 

“Oh, it’s because you’re an idiot.” Alexander says with a smirk, not missing a beat.

 

George looks up at his foster son, and gives him a challenging glare. Alexander’s almost scared of what he’ll do, but then he throws his head back in a laugh. “Oh, right!” He says, still laughing, and puts his nose back into the newspaper.

 

“Be respectful, now,” Martha warns. “So, boys. What’s going on tonight?”

 

“Big party at Hercules Mulligan’s house tonight. I’m catching a ride with these three, is that okay?”

 

“Speaking of which…” Thomas taps the face of his watch. It looks way too expensive for any 17 year old to just casually wear. Is he asking to get robbed? 

 

“Right, right.” Alexander grabs at Martha’s shoulders and fakes a happy face. “Great pâté, Martha, but we’re gonna have to motor if we wanna be ready for the party.”

 

Jefferson drops his croquet ball into the liverwurst with purpose, and it splashes food on Martha with a wet and gross  _ plop! _

 

“Oopsies. Later.” He sounds completely ingenuine and disinterested. Alexander  _ should  _ say something about it, the blatant disrespect. Sure, Martha isn’t his real mother, but it’s still really fucking rude and unnecessary, like seriously, what’s his fucking damage?

 

“Oh, that Jefferson, just so…” Alex trails off, laughs nervously, and picks flakes of liverwurst off of his foster mom. The clique leaves promptly, leaving the lawn littered with croquet instruments. He can’t help but cringe. Who raised them? His parents are dead, what’s their excuse?

 

Martha keeps a tight smile as Alexander had earlier. “I don’t know about them, Alexander,” she murmurs when she’s sure they’re out of earshot. 

 

“I do!” George shouts from behind them, still not looking up from the newsprint. “I don’t fucking like them!”

 

“George! Language!” Martha shouts back. 

 

“No, Martha, he’s right. They’re not the best, but I need them.”

“You  _ need  _ them?” Martha repeats, incredulously. “For what? You have other friends! What about that nice girl, Eliza?”

 

Alex twists up his face. “Maybe, just maybe, I want more out of life than just liverwurst.” He pulls away from Martha and starts picking up the mess the Southern Democratic Republicans left behind.

 

“Don’t use metaphors around me,” George grumbles. “And don’t bring them back around here, son. I really don’t like them.”

 

“I’m not your son,” Alexander sighs.

  
  


Alexander is great at history, but he lacks in geography. He’s always seen 7-Eleven as more of a Northern phenomenon. But apparently, the store really is ubiquitous.

 

“You know, there are like, almost 500 7-Eleven stores in the state of New York.” Thomas says in the car, conversationally, as if anyone fucking cares.

 

“Uh-huh,” Alexander nods.

 

“And there are around 50 in New York City alone, did you know that? I counted on my family’s last outing. But there are 730 in Virginia, so, the South wins again.” The way he chews his gum is so irritating, Alexander wants to rip it right out of his mouth. Maybe with his hand, maybe with his tongue. He can’t decide.

 

“God, I love 7-Eleven. And I love Virginia. So much better than this smoggy shithole.” Jefferson concludes.

 

“Well, technically, I heard on the news that California has over 1000,” Burr says from the back seat. “So, unless you count Cali as the South--,”

 

“Burr!” Thomas chides. “Talk less. I really hope you get that through your thick skull before this party--,”

 

“Please watch the road. Please watch the road,” Madison begged, kicking at Jefferson’s seat.

 

“--Because I’m really getting close to Adams,” Thomas says, completely ignoring Madison. “And if he doesn’t fuck my brains out tonight because you get in the way with some stupid fact or some sardonic quip, I swear to god, I will personally make sure you can never use your mouth again.”

 

“So, are you going to physically harm him, or are you threatening to show him a good time?” Alexander inquires. Madison giggles nervously from the back. It’s obvious he’s still wary of Thomas’s driving, far too much to invest in a hearty laugh. Alexander smiles anyway. He’s decided he likes Madison a lot more than Burr.

 

“What, like fuck his throat raw? Ugh, you wish, you perv.” Jefferson shoves Alexander with the hand not on the steering wheel. He parallel-parks quickly by a parking meter, and Madison gasps with fear. Burr hasn’t made a sound since Jefferson threatened him. 

 

Thomas hands Alexander a five dollar bill. “Get me some pop, and some Corn Nuts. I want my change. And hurry it up, I’m ready to cut loose, and it’s not a party without Corn Nuts.”

 

Alexander examines the bill and nods. He hops out of the car. 

 

“Alright, Plain Corn Nuts or BQ?”

 

“Bitch! BQ!” Jefferson screams, and he slams Alexander’s car door.

 

He takes a deep breath and walks into the store, avoiding eye contact with anyone. It’s not nearly as crowded as a New York convenience store could be. There’s only about 10, maybe 15 people around. He’s happy about that fact. He’s never been the type to grab the spotlight, and there’s no need to start now.

 

_ That’s rich, coming from someone hanging around Jefferson, _ he thinks to himself. He shakes his conscience off. He doesn’t want to hear from that little voice at all tonight. 

  
  
  


“Greetings and Salutations,” a different voice says from behind him. Alexander worries for a second, thinking it might be one of the DemRepubs, but he quickly recognizes it as--

 

“Laurens,” He breathes out. Laurens laughs and his nose crinkles again, right at the apex of his freckles. It’s so goddamn cute, Alexander could scream. But, he really, really shouldn’t.  _ Play it cool, Hamilton. _

 

“In the flesh, unfortunately.” Laurens gestures to the Corn Nuts in Alex’s hand. “You want a Slurpee with that, Eirene?”

 

Alexander blushes, flattered by the nickname and even more flattered by it’s context. He’s never seen himself as a bringer of peace, per se, more of a calm before the storm type guy. He loves the persona though, and he keeps his voice mellow to keep it up.

 

“The name is actually Alexander Hamilton, thank you very much.” He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious.  _ Keep it cool. Don’t freak this guy out. _ “But, you probably already knew that. And no, I don’t want a Slurpee, but if you’re nice, you can definitely buy me a Big Gulp.”

 

Laurens scoffs. “That’s like visiting New York and not even visiting the Empire State Building!”

 

“I know  _ plenty  _ of New Yorkers who have never visited that damned building.”

 

“Alright, fair, but the Slurpee is the signature dish of the house. Did you say cherry or lime?”

 

Alexander leans against a shelf of candies. “I said Big Gulp. This is pretty assertive for a first date, don’t you think? Could I atleast get a name?”

 

Laurens takes a huge, loud swig from his Slurpee, just to be extra-annoying. God, if he weren’t so cute, this would be bordering on the wrong side of obnoxious. 

 

“I’ll end the suspense, for your sake.” He places his frozen drink on a shelf. “The name’s John Laurens. Jack Laur, for short, and J.L. for shorter. Do not call me Jack.”

 

“So…J. Laur,” Alexander says, imitating how annoying John was before. “That shit you pulled in the cafeteria earlier…” He wolf-whistles. “Pretty severe.”

 

“The extreme always seems to make an impression. I mean, here you are, you know?”

 

Alexander is nearly shaking in ecstasy.

 

“What brings a well-read badass like yourself to rinky-dink New York?”

 

“Rinky-dink? ‘Lex, we’re in the greatest city in the world! Right here, right now? This is a moment that we’re lucky to be breathing in.” He picks his cup back up. “But I’m just here because of my dad. He owns a deconstruction company.”

 

Alex looks at John quizzically. “ _ De _ -construction?”

 

“My old man seems to love tearing shit down. You’ve seen the commercial, right?” John puts his cup on his head, as if to mimic someone wearing some silly hat. “The name’s Big Laur, if it’s in the way, I’ll make your day, blah.” He blows a raspberry and tilts his head down, catching his cup flawlessly with his left hand.

 

“Oh my god! I love that commercial! The part where he’s like,” Alex imitates the things he’s seen John’s dad to in the commercial and collapses into this ugly laugh-screech thing. It’s only after a few choking fits that he realizes that John’s stoic as ever, not even cracking a smile. He adapts quickly and goes back to his “cool” pose, leaning on the shelf, coughing away a nervous laugh. 

 

“Th-that’s you dad?” He recovers with.

 

“Tragically enough. He’s the fucking worst.”

 

“Well, everyone’s got their issues. But everyone can be potentially beautiful, you know?”

 

“WHERE THE FUCK IS HAMILTON!” booms from outside. And thus, the first Jefferson hissy fit of the night begins. Alexander sighs.

 

“For example, my friends. Sure, Jefferson seems a bit hostile, rude, overbearing, pushy and judgemental--”

 

“And he is.” John offers.

 

“No, that’s not what I was going to say! I’m saying that he  _ too  _ has beauty to him, deep, deep down.”

 

Alexander thinks back to every longing glance Jefferson’s given to him in the past few days. He can’t be faking it. He knows Jefferson has to care for him. Perhaps not at the extend that Alexander cares for him, but...

 

“Digging is for miners. C’mon, ditch him and hang with me for the night.”

 

“At the 7-Eleven? Wow, never been here before. You really know how to treat a lady.”

 

“No, I don’t, that’s why I’m here with you. Besides, I love this place.”

 

“Why’s that?” Alex asks. He’s completely tossed the Corn Nuts to the side, as well as the party, Jefferson, and everything all together. He really wants to get into this kid, this  _ John  _ kid’s head.

 

“I don’t know,” He fiddles with the straw of his Slurpee. “It’s just, you know how kids are supposed to go to one high school, stick to it for four years, and get the fuck out?”

 

Alex nods. 

 

“Well, I’ve had a bit of a different experience. I’ve been through ten high schools over the course of four years. And yeah, thankfully, my credits have been accepted everywhere I go, and I’m still on track to graduate come Spring, everything gets…” John’s eyes go kinda foggy, like he’s here but not completely. “...a little blurry.”

 

Alex feels his heartstrings tug a bit. He knows that feeling more than anyone. 

 

“It feels as if it’s only a matter of when.” Alex tries to whisper.

 

“Yes! Exactly! God, you’ve been through that too, huh? Where’d you transfer from?”

 

Alexander likes this boy. By the sweet Lord above, he does. But he doesn’t feel confident enough to tell him every detail of his life just yet. They can save that for their honeymoon. “Uh, Milwaukee.” Alexander isn’t completely convinced Milwaukee is a confirmed place, let alone a place where high schoolers would live.

 

“I should’ve known, you definitely talk like it.” Alexander’s not sure what to make of that. He just blatantly lied, you dipshit. What the fuck even is a Milwaukee.

 

“But the cool thing about this place?” John gestures to the entirety of the store. “It’s the same everywhere! Whether you’re dodging gambling coins being thrown at you in Vegas or avoiding snowballs in Boston, 7-Elevens are all the same. The linoleum aisles, the service is always sub par, the Slurpees--” He takes another large sip from his own. “God, Alex, you gotta try one of these things. Cheaper than cocaine and just as addicting.”

 

“Does your mommy know you drink all that crap?” Alex coos. The better question honestly would’ve been ‘does your mom know that you do cocaine enough to casually mention it in conversation with a stranger,’ but whatever.

 

“Well, not anymore. We lived a bit normally when she was alive.” Alexander grips his gut because  _ fuck _ , he says it so casually. He almost says  _ oh yeah? Well both of my parents are dead, so checkmate! You feel bad now, too, haha!  _ But he stills his tongue, lets him continue.

 

“Now it’s just me and my dad. I don’t mind though, he leaves me alone and we don’t have to bother with the whole ‘pretending to love each other’ thing. Ha-ha. That’s just reality though, something you seem to love to reject, Mr. Beautiful.”

 

Alex is nearly offended, but he keeps quiet. This is obviously pivotal and crucial for John, and he doesn’t want to ruin a potential relationship by getting in a screaming match in a 7-Eleven in the middle of the night.

 

“You see,” John points to his own temple. “I got shit up here that fucks with me on the daily. There’s this tiny voice in my head, all the time, always telling me to end it. It says, God, J.L., why don’t you just off yourself already? You and the entire world would be better off! But this here…” He looks at his cup as if it’s a million dollar check. “This halts it all for a bit. So go on, freeze your brain with me?”

 

Alex grabs the cup and looks up at J.L. He’s sweating a bit from his confession, and Alex thinks it would be rude  _ not  _ to drink after him. He takes a small and fast slurp and hands it back to the broken boy. “I don’t feel much of…” He starts. He’s interrupted by a sudden and quick pulse of pain in the front of his head. “Oh, son of a bitch!” He yelps. J.L. laughs and claps Alex on the shoulder.

 

“Nice, nice. Maybe later we can smoke weed, too. Might calm the headache down.”

 

“Hamilton.” Alexander turns to see a very angry Jefferson in the doorway of the 7-Eleven. John suddenly stops laughing, and Alexander can hear him fold his arms. 

 

“Oh, Jefferson, I was just--”

 

“Corn Nuts?” Jefferson grits out.

 

“Yes, Jefferson,” Alexander answers with his head down.

 

“Wave bye-bye to Red Dawn here and let’s motor! I’m getting antsy!” Jefferson tears the Corn Nuts out of Alexander’s hands, not even bothering to pay. The employees at the counter of the store don’t even look fazed, so Alexander follows him. He turns back quickly and waves a small wave to John, who flashes a cute smile and a wink.

 

It’s worth getting yelled at, Alexander thinks. He drifts off into a small nap during the ride to the party, his thoughts laced with green eyes and lime Slurpee kisses.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not resist adding some Stoner John Laurens into the mix. Also, I still don't know if Milwaukee is real.


	5. Raise a Glass to the Four of Us (Ain't Nobody Home Tonight!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hercules Mulligan is throwing a party. That sounds like Big Fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: Slight sexual content, excessive use of curse words as well as 80's slang, drug mentions, alcohol use, binge drinking, dubious consent, possible typos, and Jefferson being a dickwad.

This  house is impressive and grand. Alex feels tiny leaving the car, almost too hesitant to walk towards the door. Jefferson pulls him to it though, Burr walking behind with his nose in the air and Madison nervously trailing them all.

 

The door swings open on Jefferson’s first knock, and a disoriented Charles Lee greets the four of them. He’s leaning against Hercules, the quarterback himself.

 

“Evening, ladies.” Lee says, devious. The Democratic-Republicans barely register his salutation and push past him, while Alex sheepishly offers a small wave as a simple, half-assed attempt at a temporary white flag. Lee ignores the truce offering and follows the rest of the party in, all while ogling the trio that just stepped in.

 

_ Just for tonight.  _ Alex thinks.  _ I listen to some music, meet some people. That’s it. _

 

Hercules tugs at Alex’s sleeve before he can rush off anywhere. “Did you know that they  _ made  _ me throw this dumb party here?”

 

Alex blinks for a second, slowly taking in that yes, Hercules is, in fact, directly speaking to him. “What, this is  _ your  _ house?” He asks, completely ignoring the question at hand. He feels dumb. Why did he ask that? He already knew that.

 

“Yeah, it is. They said it’s teammate protocol or something, that everyone has to throw a party at least once on their own turf.”

 

“Sounds like a steaming pile of bullshit to me,” Alex grumbles.

 

“Exactly, so I said no. But, they threatened me. Said I had to let them use my house.”

 

“You’re bigger and stronger than everyone on the team!” Alex all but yells, both in disbelief and to counter the loud party atmosphere. “You could take ‘em, what gives?”

 

Hercules twiddles his thumbs a bit. “Not everyone is big and strong like me. At least, not in the way I am. They threatened something that I consider...more of an extension of a very important part of myself.”

 

“Huh.” Alex settles with, because honestly, what do you say to that? Days ago, Hercules would barely acknowledge his presence, and now they’re supposed to have extensive conversation? Alex doesn’t mind the attention, he decides, but it’s pretty telling how much of a hold the Dem-Repubs have on Westerberg’s balls. 

 

“It’s just not fair.” Herc shakes his head, dismissively. Alex pouts and wonders what it would be like to be friends with Herc, actually. He ponders whether or not they would be amicable in some alternate universe, on some separate timeline, or would he still be alone and distant? The guy seems decent enough.

 

“Well, I’m gonna go over here,” Alex says. Herc’s looking around his newly-trashed home distractedly, too stressed to fully hear Alex. “You know, the crew probably needs me to shine their shoes or something.”

 

“Ah...yeah.” Herc replies. “Have fun. Please puke only where you know you should. Oh, and if you see Lafayette, could you tell them that I’ll meet them in the usual spot? They’ll know what I mean.”

 

Alexander pays close attention to his verbiage. He takes it as a compliment that Herc trusts him to use their proper pronouns in his presence. He nods, though Herc won’t see it, and scurries to find Jefferson.

 

He finds him and his posse quickly enough, in the center of the main room. 

 

“Thomas?” Alex asks, cautiously. He’s there, surrounded by his entourage, hammering down two shots at once. He swallows them and slams both shot glasses onto a makeshift table with a loud  _ Clank! _

 

“Catch up, loser.” He says, wiping his mouth on his forearm. He swipes another glass from a boy behind him, ogling. He shoves it into Alex’s open hand. “You’re four behind.” 

 

This isn’t his first time in the presence of alcohol. His foster father, George, would let him sniff empty Heineken bottles after he finished them. He didn’t particularly like the smell, but they brought him a sense of nostalgia. This wasn’t even his first time witnessing drunkenness. He had other foster families before the Washingtons. His previous parents were never the nicest, and he knew their resulting abuse had something to do with alcohol at least once or twice.

 

He wafted the scent into his nose. He could barely smell it over the muted AXE Body Spray and conflicting adolescent body odor, but it definitely wasn’t Heineken. This smelled downright  _ poisonous,  _ like, Jesus fuck, why would anyone put this in their body willingly? The smell was fucking brutal, like someone suggested he shove knives up his nostrils or something.

 

Oh, wait, no. He just leaned into the sniff too heavily. He actually had alcohol up his nose now.

 

“Alex Hamilton, are you trying to  _ snort vodka _ ?” Thomas said. He was very obviously concerned.

 

“It burns,” Alex settles with. 

 

“Oh man, this guy’s hardcore,” says some dumbass from the corner of the main room. Everyone cheers after that, and continues to praise the Democratic Republicans.

 

Seriously, the pull that these douchebags have on the school is sinister and just plain unnatural. It’s nearly overrated, but Alex likes being on the other side of it for once. 

 

He knocks back what’s left of his shot glass and lets it burn his throat. It’s not as bad as he thought it would be, but it’s still pretty horrible. 

 

“Oh, and pretty boy?” Thomas grabs at Alex’s collar. “Do what you want, but back off of Adams. Don’t fight him, and don’t fuck him. Like I said before, I’m trying to have a really good night.” He lets him go and lets the crowd over take him again, leaving Alex stunned and confused.

 

He’s never smoked weed before, but J.L.’s offer from before to do so is sounding more and more convincing as the night goes on.

 

Alex, in his grand quest to avoid the spotlight and perhaps find Lafayette, bumps into a couple that obviously needs to take their antics upstairs. 

 

“You know, I think Herc’s parents have a waterbed,” One-half of the couple says. 

 

“Sounds thrilling,” The other half says, diving back in for another french kiss. Only as he gets closer does Alex recognize them as the couple he saw breaking up in the hallway on the first day of school. Alcohol is quite the drug, he gathers.

 

James Madison walks up behind Alex, startling him. Alex tugs on his sleeve, just hard enough for James to whisk him away from the couple, and says just above the music booming: “I think that’s what they call third base?”

 

“Not even close,” Madison laughs out. His laugh is comforting to Alex, for some reason. There’s something friendly in it, almost adorable. 

 

“I’m sorry. As you can see, I’m not really invited to parties a lot. I’ve never even had real friends before.” Alex pushes a stray strand of hair up and tucks it behind his ear. He doesn’t know why he’s so shy all of a sudden, or why he admitted his loneliness like that. He’s never had trouble expressing himself to James. In fact, he’s the only one who Alex has always been comfortable around.

 

Maybe that’s why.

 

“Don’t worry, Hamilton,” James says, grabbing at Alex’s empty hand. “I’m not either. I mean, I am when I’m around Jefferson and Burr, but alone, I’m kind of just looked over.”

 

“I don’t see why.” Alex says this with the most genuine voice he’s used tonight. There’s not a word of doubt in the sentence. The music doesn’t sound as deafening as it did when he walked in. The smell isn’t as overbearing. All he can focus on is Madison and his eyes and how nice it feels when he runs his thumb over the soft skin of his hand.

 

“Ah…” James says, looking at his hand, still holding Alex’s. He snaps his fingers with his free hand, and three shot glasses are held out to him from three desperate fans. He takes one with dark liquid sitting in it. He sniffs at it, decides it’s safe, and hands it to Alex. “Tequila?”

 

Alex shrugs. Things might start making more sense if he drinks more. “Isn’t there a way to do this though?” He asks. “It’s like shot…” He gulps it down in one go. “Then lime, then salt?”

 

“No,” James says. “It’s actually salt then lime…”

 

“You’re doing it WRONG, Hamilton.” Burr says from behind them both, scaring them. The man is like a fucking garden snake. 

 

“Really? ‘Cause I feel GREAT.” Alex laughs, a hearty laugh, one that opens his lungs up a bit more. He feels the vodka and tequila running through his veins, lighting up his body like a switchboard. He can feel his smile beginning to split his face in two, and his body feeling heavier than it ever has been. He feel invincible, really, and he’s starting to understand why people love to do this every weekend. 

 

“You _ look _ great, too,” Some guy comments as Alex is walking by with Burr and Madison to get more shots. 

 

“Did you hear that?” Alex whispers to Madison. “That hot guy smiled at me without a trace of mockery.”

 

“Everyone’s high as a kite, Alex, of course he’s gonna say that.” James says, clipping Alex’s wings just a tad too much. Alex doesn’t want reality to set in yet, he just discovered the wonders of alcohol. James notices him start to sulk and amends his statement. 

 

“H-he’s also not blind, you know? I mean, anyone can see you’re hot tonight,” James says quickly. Alex is back to grinning like an idiot. He swallows his next tequila shot without breaking eye contact with James.

 

“Ugh, jackass, get off of me!” Burr squeaks, wedged between some football player and the wall. That’s the first time Alex even realized Burr wasn’t directly behind him and Madison. 

 

“C’mon, Aaron, you don't like wearing skirts too?” Alex recognizes that voice anywhere. It’s none other than that dickhead Lee. He’s feeling pretty confident after his three shots and he has even more choice words for him. 

 

Thomas didn’t say to avoid fighting Lee, only Adams. This was completely fair game.

 

“Hey, Lee, fuck off, okay? He’s not into it.”

 

Lee, visibly irritated, turned around. “You fuck off, okay? I know he’s a fucking homo just like the rest of you so let me just…”

 

And with that, Alex punched Lee square in the nose. For the second time that day, he’s gotten to see Lee stumble to the ground, injured. Score. This time, absolutely no one helps.

 

“I didn’t need your help.” Burr says, holding out his extended arm, middle finger proudly on display. Alex doesn’t take it too hard. He’s tipsy, for starters, and he doesn’t think he needs a pat on the back for preventing a potential sexual assault. 

 

“Aw, thanks, Burr, but I don’t need to vomit right now.” Alex says, coupled with a crude cackle. He lets himself be pulled from that conversation and tossed to the other, yelling gleefully as he goes along.

 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Eliza, cowering in a corner. She’s wearing a bright, pastel-purple ‘Betsey’ shirt, and she’s holding a bottle of some sort. She looks so lost, Alex can’t pretend he doesn’t see her.

 

“Betsey, you’re actually here?” He opens with.

 

“I am here, and wow, this is all so exciting! Have you seen Herc? I gotta thank him for the invitation. I even brought sparkling cider!”

 

Alex goes pale with regret and shame. He also quickly remembers that Herc is waiting for Laf somewhere, so he tries to discourage her. She’s a force to be reckoned with, however, and doesn’t let up for a second. She drills through the crowd, Alex hot on her trail.

 

She finds him, and he’s scrambling in the kitchen.. He’s not yet in the spot, Alex figures, because the kitchen is so crowded. This would be a ridiculous place to meet Lafayette.

 

“Herc! It’s me, ‘Liza. I got your note!” She declares, proudly. Alex feels like a piece of shit.

 

“Note? What note?” Herc replies.

 

“Your note, the one asking me to come by?” He smile hasn’t faded a bit. This is gonna sting. “I  really wasn’t going to, but you took the time to write that, and that’s just so sweet.” 

 

“Eliza, I’m sorry, but I didn’t write any kind of note or anything.”

 

“Look,” She lowers her voice so few can hear. Alex is close enough that he can. “I know why you’re making such a scene, I get it, you don’t want what you said to get out there, but this note is in your handwriting, a-and I got it, so…”

 

“I didn’t write you a note! Jesus, can you leave me alone?!” Herc yells. Eliza is taken aback, and flinches. Herc immediately regrets raising his voice and apologize. “I’m sorry. I’m just really stressed right now, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“B-but...this note says that…”

 

“Oh, sweet, more booze?” Adams comes up behind them both with Thomas on his arm. He swipes the cider from Eliza and chugs it, only to spit it back out into Eliza’s face. 

 

“What is this garbage, huh? Herc, is she bothering you?”

 

“No, she’s not, Adams, can you just--”

 

“There’s no alcohol in this!” Thomas exclaims. “Are you trying to poison us?”

 

“Hercules…” 

 

“Listen, you fucking worm, Hercules already told you twice to back off,” Adams continues, more pointedly towards Eliza this time. She begins to shrink into herself and back away in fear. 

 

“You don’t have to be so cruel, Adams, please--”

 

“No, no, Herc, let him finish.” Thomas says, wickedly. “Things are just getting interesting.”

 

“Thomas!” Alex says, much louder than he intended. His yelling catches the attention of more partygoers than he intended. Alex stumbles over, not really able to quite get his footing.

 

“What, bitch?” He yells back. Alex cracks his knuckles on his side. He’s never had the guts to speak to Jefferson like this. He feels like a god.

 

“Sidebar. Now.”

 

To everyone’s surprise, Jefferson listens. Adams starts a chorus of  _ Oooooh! _ While Herc tries to sneak away from the spotlight.

 

Alex leads Thomas into a dimly lit room near the back. There’s a couple, two women with similar frames, making out on the bed in there.

 

“Get out.” Alex says, voice gravelly and serious. 

 

“Alexander?” says one of the girls - Peggy. She looks different without her glasses. 

 

“Listen, guys, I just want to finish up with Peggy real quick,” the other girl is the one who was nearly getting fingered by her (ex?) boyfriend at the front of the party earlier. Man, that couple needs some work. Alex never realized how similar she looked to Peggy until this exact moment. 

 

“I said, you need to get out,” Alex repeats.

 

“But -”

 

“Oh my God, get out!” Thomas screams. The girls dash out quickly, and Thomas snickers a bit.

 

“What’s funny?” Alex snaps almost immediately. He doesn’t recall any joke being told.

 

“You are! This tough act? Ugh, it’s almost convincing.”

 

“Um, believe it maybe? I’m really fucking angry with you -”

 

“Mmm, yes, curse at me again -”

 

“You’re always instigating - ahhh! What are you doing?!”

 

Thomas had stealthily locked the door behind them and started to disrobe. He was walking towards Alex fast, crowding him into tripping backwards onto the bed. Alex could barely keep up, and the water in the bed was making him feel even more disoriented. 

 

“Yelling at me like that out there, how dare you?” He adjusted himself under his skirt and began to straddle Alex. 

 

This was something out of Alex’s wildest dreams...or maybe his nightmares? All he knew was that when Jefferson had him pinned down like this, grinding down on him like that, everything’s just too fuzzy to tell.

 

Senior year was already proving to be better than all other years of schooling combined in Alex’s book.

 

“Putting me in my place in front of all of those people, in front of  _ Adams _ too, fuck,” Thomas slotted their crotches together and Alex mewled. He had never felt so confusingly aroused in his life. 

 

“I...You’re not mad?”

 

“The only thing I have to be mad about is that you’re not inside of me yet.” Thomas growls. He slips his own top and cardigan off in one fluid motion, and goes back down to capture Alex’s lips in a possessive and ravenous kiss.

 

Alex never planned for his first kiss to be like this. He expected it to be Eliza, or maybe John as of late. He expected to be sober. But no, here he was, nearly seasick lying on a stranger’s waterbed, head full of fermented liquid, frenching it up with Westerberg High’s Most Wanted. Sweet Baby Jesus Christ.

 

Unorthodox, perhaps, but he didn’t want to question it anymore.

 

Alex reciprocated as best he could, grinding up till they had some sort of rhythm going. He didn’t know exactly what to do with his mouth so he felt their teeth click a few times, but Thomas doesn’t seem to mind. He moans, high in his throat, deep into Alex’s mouth, with the sensations. Alex places a hand in Thomas’ hair to keep him still and bucks a little faster upward. Thomas follows suit, grinding and humping like a desperate rabbit in heat.

 

“Oh, fuck, Jo--!” Thomas yells as he trails off, and, weird thing to yell, Alex thinks, seeing as his name does  _ not  _ begin with a J. Like, not even slightly. Sure, J and A sound similarly as letters, but they’re still 9 letters apart, it can’t be a coincidence.

 

It’s only when he’s out of his own head that he realizes Thomas’ hips have gone still.

 

“Dude, did you just…?”

 

Thomas gasps desperately and looks down, starting to regret not taking off his underwear and skirt first. “Grody...I guess I did.”

 

“Jefferson, what the fuck!” Alex wasn’t too fond of his new wardrobe but he still took constant pride in his appearance. There’s a huge stain on his skirt now, his  _ brand new skirt _ . 

 

“Omigod, it’s not that big of a deal, keep your voice down.” Thomas whispered back. “It happens to us guys, right?”

 

“You ruined my skirt! My Dior pleated 1989 skirt! Just because you couldn’t listen to me for one second?”

 

“Gag me with a spoon, Hamilton, so I came on your skirt, big whoop, we’ll buy you another one! Nothing you had to say out there is more important than what we just did, huh?”

 

“We?!” Alex shoots up and pushes the shirtless boy off of him. “What  _ we  _ did?” He gets up and runs out of the room, furious, and makes his way to Eliza. 

 

“Hey, I’m not done with you!” Jefferson screams after him.

 

“Yeah? Well I’m not done with this.” Alex breaks an empty vodka bottle on the counter in the kitchen and everyone stares at him, quieting down. 

“Alright, listen up! I have something to say on behalf of Eliza Schuyler!” Alex says as loud as he can muster.

 

“E-loser Schuyler? Oh boy, this has got to be good.” Adams says.

 

“Alexander...Don’t…” Eliza says, clearly embarrassed. Something tells Alex she’s gotten the picture, but he’s not done yet.

 

“Alexander Hamilton, don’t you dare,” warns Jefferson.

 

“Alex…” James says, much weaker and softer. “Please…”

 

“Or what?” Alex completely ignores James. “Huh? Are you gonna  _ ‘fire me? _ ’ Kick me out of your little cult of a clique? Hm? Well that sounds pretty fucking dandy to me right about now, Jefferson, because you are impossible. In fact, here, I’ll make it easier for you, I am formally resigning my commission from the Lip Gloss Gestapo.”

 

“You were nothing! Just like her! Pathetic and weak, a goddamn doormat, and now you’re out here caping for her!”

 

“Eliza, go home.” Alex says sternly. Eliza doesn’t even hesitate, and runs out of the house quickly, her cries echoing through the night.

 

“You’re just so jealous of her, Jefferson, you always have been! She’s sweet and kind and actually looks decent in a skirt. You’re just full of poison that you have to go around fucking it up for normal people, you are just awful!”

 

“And what of you, Mr. Smartest in the Room? What of you! You eat and break bread with us, shop with us and do our dirty work all the livelong day, and you still call yourself her friend! At least I have the common decency to hate her to her face like everyone else, you pathetic hypocritical sack of horseshit!”

 

“You can say what you want, minuteman, I’m still leaving!”

 

“You don’t walk away from me, bub, not when I send for you!” Fuming, Jefferson grabs Hamilton by the arm and swings him around. 

 

“Don’t swing me, I don’t feel well.”

 

“You fucking insect, I’m not done with you!  _ We’re  _ not done with you, got it? So walk away, hell, run! Transfer if you have the balls! But you will regret it, Alexander Hamilton, do you hear me? You will regret even considering making me look like a buffoon. You don’t  _ get  _ to be a nobody. Come Monday, you’ll be an ex-somebody. No one here will forget you, and no one on God’s green Earth is going to let you play their reindeer games!”

 

He really did try to warn him. The last violent jerk towards Jefferson resulted in regurgitated alcohol and liverwurst to come raining down upon his ensemble, his shirtless chest and his designer bottoms, courtesy of a very intoxicated Alexander. The crowd around them gagged and took a step back, in attempt to evade the splash zone. Fitting, thought Alexander, as he continued heaving his guts onto Thomas. He was being quite a barf bag.

 

The screech that tore from Jefferson’s mouth was inhuman, nothing that Alex had ever even heard. The other partygoers must’ve shared the same sentiments, because they all flinched just as hard. Even Burr didn’t have something else to occupy his attention. 

 

“I raise you from nothing! I shower you with praise and glory, and this is how I am paid, covered in puke!”

 

“Aw, lick it up, baby, lick it up.” Alex manages after recovering. “Buy us both new skirts like you were so keen on doing a few minutes ago.”

 

“You’re dead to me, Hamilton, and to all of Westerberg.” He laughs hysterically. Alex starts to shrink into himself, instantly sobered up and anxious thoughts seeping back in. He broke a vodka bottle. He puked in front of all of his classmates.

 

But most importantly, he poked the sleeping bear. 

 

“30 hours, and you’re history, Hamilton. Hope you said your prayers.”

 

Alex, overcome with anxiety and fear, ran out of the door just as Eliza had earlier. But he wasn’t going to see her, no. 

 

He actually wants to live for these next 30 hours, not simply exist. 

 

He knows just the guy to help him start living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god...I am sorry for the delay! between my birthday and my jobs, my money troubles and my partners and my dwindling tolerance for a lot of people in either of these fandoms, shits been hard, yo. but hey, here I am.
> 
> I was originally planning to have this finished by July 11th because that is both the day historically that Alexander Hamilton dueled with Aaron Burr, and it's also free Slurpee day at the 7/11. And get it, because this is a crossover? Ha-ha. But life happened, once again. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this as well as my slight twist of the story! I didn't want every part of this to be predictable, why would you read it if it was just a combination of the scripts, you know? To anyone who has commented or still reads along...love you so much.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: @stonerjohnlaurens  
> twitter: @HIJABIHEAUX  
> private twitter: @gayjohnlaurens


End file.
